Consumed
by ncfan
Summary: It was hers, and hers alone.


This is running off the theory (unconfirmed in canon, as far as I know) that the Silmarils can and do inspire obsession in those who possess or seek to possess them.

I own nothing.

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It came to her after the death of her father and the destruction of his kingdom; she was the only living heir of Dior the Fair, they told her, and what had been his now was hers. So she was Queen of a ruined kingdom, ruler of a scattered and diminished people. Even at her young age Elwing recognized that there was no value in that. She understood that such a thing could only bring bitterness. However, there was something to this, in her new life as a refugee in the Havens of Sirion, that gave her some contentment.

As a small child, Elwing had been fascinated by the jewel worn round her father's neck. Her father was dazzlingly beautiful, and the jewel only seemed to enhance his good looks; her grandmother, Elwing was told, had been even more stunning to look upon, but Elwing barely remembered Lúthien, and recalled only a sweet scent and the softness of her hair. The jewel, a Silmaril, Dior told his daughter, was one of three holy jewels constructed by the Great Kinslayer, Fëanor, in Valinor, before the Dimming of the Trees and before Fëanor's great madness came upon him. _It is ours now, daughter, _he said to her, in a voice that even as an adult woman, Elwing still recalled vividly. _The Kinslayers have no right to it, for their hands are stained with blood over it. We will never give it to them, shall we?_

After the sack of Doriath, the Silmaril came to Elwing. She must keep it safe, she was told. She must keep it from the Kinslayers at all costs, and never let them have it. Elwing did not have to be told that twice. She would never let anyone have it.

The necklace into which the Silmaril was set was heavy and thick; Elwing did not wear it until she had more height on her and the weight of the chain did not bend her neck, and even then she typically wore a scarf over it so no other would see the light of the jewel and wish to take it from her.

It truly was a thing of beauty, this jewel of Elwing's. The gleam of it was so bright that if she stared into it for too long, her eyes would start to water and ache, but she was so enraptured by its beauty that she did not notice that, nor did she notice how pale her skin would grow, how thin and translucent, how prominent her bones would seem at times.

Hunger left her. Thirst left her. The cares and worries of the world seemed less important. Staring into the depths of the Silmaril, Elwing found her grief lessened, grief over the loss of her parents and brothers, grief over the loss of her home, grief over how her husband was always at sea, and seemed to have completely lost interest in anything besides finding Aman. He had once said to her that she seemed as though made of light when the glow of the Silmaril was undimmed upon her, but this was not enough to keep him at home. No, he went in search of a greater beauty still, and was unconcerned for his wife or children, or the people who had once looked to him to lead.

But she could forget the worst of her malaise that when drowned in the light of the Silmaril. The people of the Havens of Sirion said that she was a vision of beauty and grace, serene and unruffled, surely the mirror image of her grandmother, though small-boned, unusually short Elwing lacked Lúthien's height. She ruled in Eärendil's absence, doing as best she could to mete out justice fairly and administer the city competently, despite the fact that Elwing had never been trained for such a duty and no one ever expected her to have to do so—no one had expected Eärendil to leave them in such a situation. Elwing was inexperienced and uncertain, but the light of the Silmaril lent her strength and confidence. She could think more clearly, see more clearly, when she wore it.

Her twin boys would tug at her hands once all her duties were done, begging her for her time, to see a picture they'd made with their paints, to see a feather they'd found on the streets or a shell they'd found when their nurse had taken them down to the shore. _Come away from the window, Mama, _they would say, trying to draw her away from the tall window overlooking the sea, on the very edge of the city over the cliffs, looking for any sign of Eärendil's ship. Bright, friendly Elros and curious, solemn-eyed Elrond, sweet children both. They gave her joy, gave her some balm to Eärendil's absence, when her deep melancholy might overcome her, and yet… And yet, they seemed less real to her than the jewel around her neck. They seemed to her as pale wraiths who hovered at her heels, tugging on her hands and wrists, tugging on her skirt, with hands that had no strength, for they had no flesh and substance.

That was the way it was with all the world. That was the way it was with her herself. Everything seemed less real in the light of the Silmaril, and more like a simulacrum of the truth, images painted on a canvas or woven into a tapestry, superficial figures that couldn't survive when held up to the light. After the light of the Silmaril, all the world looked tawdry and crude in comparison.

Elwing felt empty without it; indeed, even with the Silmaril, she had lately begun to feel as though she was completely hollow, a canvas of skin stretched over a framework of bone, with nothing of substance contained within. She felt totally without worth when not in the sight of the Silmaril's glow; her essence deserted her. Feeling the weight of the necklace the jewel was set into around her neck, feeling the warmth of the jewel's glow on her skin, only this could make these feelings abate, even if only in part.

She would never give it up. Not at the cost of her city, her children, or even her own life.

When the sons of Fëanor came to Sirion for a jewel they only thought was theirs, when Elwing found herself cornered at the window's edge, her path seemed clear. The fate of her city, the fate of her people, the fate of her children, hiding somewhere in the palace, all of these things were unimportant. All that mattered was that she would not surrender the Silmaril to the Kinslayers, not at any cost. It was _hers_, and would remain hers.

All around her was the endless deep blue of the sky, still warming into spring. The air blew through her hair and her skirt. In the moment before her form changed without warning and she flew away, Elwing imagined her death, her bones shattered on the rocks and the blood seeping out of her broken body, and was not afraid. Only triumphant.


End file.
